Diana

"I did not know what I was doing."

"Have you given up loving me?"

"What is the use of talking of it, Evan? I am another man's wife."

"But there are such things as divorces."

"Hush! Do not speak of such a thing."

"I must speak of it. Whom do you love? tell me that first."

"No one has a right to ask me such a question."

"I have a right," cried the young man; "for I have been deceived, cheated, robbed of my own; and I have a right to get back my own. Diana, speak! do you love me less than you used to do? Tell me that."

"I do not change, Evan."

"Then you have no business to be anybody's wife but mine. Nothing can hinder that, Diana."

"Stop! You are not to speak so. I will not hear it."

"You are mine, Diana."

"I was yours, Evan!" she said tenderly, bending her head over him till her lips touched his hair. "We have been parted, and it is over – over for this world. You must go your way, and I must go mine. And you must not say, I am ruined."

"Do not you say it?"

"I must not."

"It is the truth for me, if I do not have you with me."

"It is not the truth," she said with infinite tenderness in her manner. "Not ruined, Evan. We can go our way and do our work, even if we are not happy. That is another thing."

"Then you are not happy?" he said eagerly.

Diana did not reply.

"Why should we not be happy?" he went on passionately, looking up now into her face. "You are mine, Diana – you belonged to me first, you have been mine all along; only I have been robbed of you; – pure robbery; nothing else. And has not a man a right to his own, wherever and whenever he finds it? You had given yourself first to me. That is irrevocable."

"No" – she said with the same gentleness, in every tone of which lurked an unutterable sorrow; it would have broken her husband's heart to hear her; and yet she was quiet, so quiet that she awed the young officer a little. "No – I had promised to give myself to you; that is all."

"You gave me your heart, Di?"

She was silent, for at the moment she could not speak

"Di!" – he insisted.

"Yes."

"That is enough. That is all."

"It is not all. Since then I have" —

"How could you do it, Diana? how could you do it, after your heart was mine? while your heart was mine!"

"I was dead," she said in the same low, slow, impressive way. "I thought I was dead, – and that it did not matter any more what I did, one way or another. I thought I was dead; and when I found out that there was life in me yet, it was too late." A slight shudder ran over her shoulders, which Evan, however, did not see.

"And you doubted me!" said he.

"I heard nothing" —

"Of course! – and that was enough to make you think I was nothing but a featherhead!" —

"I thought I was not good enough for you," she said softly.

"Not good enough!" cried Evan. "When you are just a pearl of perfection – a diamond of loveliness – more than all I knew you would be – like a queen rather than like a common mortal. And I could have given you a place fit for you; and here you are" —

"Hush!" she said softly, but it stopped him.

"Why did you never hear from me? I wrote, and wrote, and O, Diana, how I looked for something from you! I walked miles on the way to meet the waggon that brought our mails; I could hardly do my duty, or eat, or sleep, at last. I would ride then to meet the post-carrier, though it did not help me, for I could not open the bags till they were brought into the post; and then I used to go and gallop thirty miles to ride away from myself. Why did you never write one word?"

"I did not know your address," she said faintly.

"I gave it you, over and over."

"You forget, – I never got the letters."

"What became of them?"

"I don't know."

"What was her motive?"

"I suppose – I don't know."

"What do you suppose?"

"What is the use of talking about it, Evan?"

"My poor darling!" said he, looking up in her face again "it has been hard on you too. Oh Di, my Di! I cannot lose you!" —

He was still kneeling before her, and she put her two hands on his head, smoothing or rather pushing back the short locks from his temples on either side, looking as one looks one's last on what one loves. Her eyes were dry, and large with pain which did not allow the eyelids their usual droop; her mouth was in the saddest lines a woman's lips can take, but they did not tremble.

"Hush," she said again softly. "I am lost to you. That is over. Now go and do a man's work in the world, and if I hear of you, let me hear good."

"Haven't you got one kiss for me?"

She bent lower down, and kissed his brow. She kissed it twice; but the manner of the woman was of such high and pure dignity that the young officer, who would else have had no scruple, did not dare presume upon it. He took no more than she gave; bent his head again when she took her hands away, and covered his face, as at first. They were both still awhile.

"Evan – you must go," she whispered.

"When may I come again?"

She did not answer.

"I am coming very soon again, Di. I must see you often – I must see you very often, while I am here. I cannot live if I do not see you. I do not see how I can live any way!"

"Don't speak so."

"How do you expect to bear it?" he asked jealously.

"I don't know. We shall find as the days come."

"Life looks so long!" —

"Yes. But we have got something to do in it."

"I have not. Not now."

"Every one has. And a brave man, or a brave woman, will do what he has to do, Evan."

"I am not brave, except in the way every man is brave. When may I come,

Diana? To-morrow?"

"O no!"

"Why not? Then when?"

"Not this week."

"But this is Tuesday."

"Yes. And Mrs. Reverdy is waiting for you all this while."

"I have been waiting all these years. She don't know what waiting means. Mayn't I come again before Monday?"

"Certainly not. You must wait till then, and longer."

"I am not going to wait longer. Then Monday, Diana?"

He stretched out his hand to her, and she laid hers within it. The first time that day; the first time since so many days. Hands lingered, were slow to unclasp, loath to leave the touch which was such exquisite pain and pleasure at once. Then, without looking again, slowly, deliberately, as all her movements had been made, Diana withdrew from the room; not bearing, perhaps, to stay and have him leave her, or doubting of her power to make him go, or unable to endure anything more for this time. She left him standing there, and slowly went up the stairs. But the moment she got to her room she stopped, and stood with her hands pressed upon her heart, listening; every particle of colour vanishing from her face, and her eyes taking a strained look of despair; listening to the footsteps that, also slowly, now went through the hall. When they went out and had quitted the house, she flew to the window. She watched to see the stately figure go along the little walk and out at the gate; she had hardly dared to look at him down-stairs. Now her eye sought out every well-known line and trait with an eagerness like the madness of thirst. Yes, he had grown broader in the shoulders; his frame was developed; he had become more manly, and so even finer in appearance than ever. Without meaning it, Diana drew comparisons. How well he walked! what a firm, sure, graceful gait! How beloved of old time was the officer's undress coat, and the little cap which reminded Diana so inevitably of the time when it was at home on her table or lying on a chair near! Only for a minute or two she tasted the bitter-sweet pang of associations; and then cap and wearer were passed from her sight.

CHAPTER XXXII.

WIND AND TIDE

How that night went by it would be useless to try to tell. Some things cannot be described. A loosing of all the bands of law and order in the material world we call chaos; and once in a while the mental nature of some poor mortal falls for a time into a like condition. No hold of anything, not even of herself; no clear sense of anything, except of the disorder and pain; no hope at the moment that could fasten on either world, the present or the future; no will to lay hold of the unruly forces within her and reduce them to obedience. An awful night for Diana, such as she never had spent, nor in its full measure would ever spend again. Nevertheless, through all the confusion, under all the tumult, there was one fixed point; indeed, it was the point round which all the confusion worked, and which Diana was dimly conscious of all the while; one point of action. At the time she could not steady herself to look at it; but when the dawn came up in the sky, with its ineffable promise of victory by and by, – and when the rays of the sun broke over the hills with their golden performance of conquest begun, strength seemed to come into her heart. Certainly light has no fellowship with darkness; and the spiritual and the material are more closely allied, perhaps, than we wot of. Diana washed herself and dressed, and felt that she had done with yesterday.

It was a worn and haggard face that was opposite Basil at the breakfast table; but she sat there, and poured out his tea with not less care than usual. Except for cups of tea, the meal was not much more than a pretence. After it was done, Diana followed her husband to his study.

"Basil," she said, "I must go away."

Mr. Masters started, and asked what she meant.

"I mean just that," said Diana. "I must go away Basil, help me!"

"Help you, my child?" said he; "I will help you all I can. But sit down, Diana; you are not able to stand. Why do you want to go away?"

"I must."

"Where do you wish to go?"

"I do not know. I do not care. Anywhere."

"You have no plan?"

"No; only to get away."

"Why, Diana?" he said very tenderly. "Is it necessary?"

"Yes, Basil. I must go."

"Do you know that it would be extremely difficult for me to leave home just at present? There are so many people wanting me."

"I know that. I have thought of all that. You cannot go. Let me go, and baby."

"Where, my dear?

"I don't know," she said with almost a sob. "You must know. You must help me, Basil."

Basil looked at her, and took several turns up and down the room, in sorrow and perplexity.

"What is your reason, Di?" he asked gently. "If I understood your thought better, I should know better how to meet it."

"I must be away," said Diana vaguely. "I must not be here. I musn't be where I can see – anybody. Nobody must know where I am, Basil – do you understand? You must send me away, and you must not tell anybody."

The minister walked up and down, thinking. He let go entirely the thought of arguing with Diana. She had the look at moments of a creature driven to bay; and when not so, the haggard, eager, appealing face filled his inmost heart with grief and pity. Nobody better than Basil could manage the unreasonable and bring the disorderly to obedience; he had a magical way with him; but now he only meditated how Diana's wish was to be met. It was not just easy, for he had few family connections in the world, and she had none.

"I can think of nobody to whom I should like to send you," he said.

"Unless" —

He waited, and Diana waited; then he finished his sentence.

"I was going to say, unless a certain old grandaunt of mine. Perhaps she would do."

"I do not care where or who it is," said Diana.

"I care, though."

"Where does she live?"

"On Staten Island."

"Staten Island?" repeated Diana.

"Yes. It is near New York; about an hour from the city, down the bay."

"The bay of New York?"

"Yes."

"May I go there?" said Diana. "That would do."

"How soon do you wish to go?"

"To-day, if I could!" she said with a half-caught breath. "Can I,

Basil? To-day is best."

Mr. Masters considered again.

"Will you be ready to go by the seven o'clock train this evening?"

"Yes. O yes!"

"Very well. We will take that."

"We?" Diana repeated. "Must I take you, Basil, away from your work? Cannot I go alone?"

He looked up at her with a very sweet grave smile as he answered, "Not possibly."

"I am a great deal of trouble" – she said with a woful expression.

"Go and make your preparations," he said cheerfully; "and I will tell you about Aunt Sutphen when we are off."

There was no bustle in the house that day, there was no undue stir of making arrangements; but at the time appointed Diana was ready. She had managed to keep Miss Collins in the dark down to the very last minute, and answered her questions then with, "I can't tell you. You must ask Mr. Masters." And Diana knew anybody might as well get the Great Pyramid to disclose its secrets.

That night's train took them to Boston. The next morning they went on their way towards New York; and so far Mr. Masters had found no good time for his proposed explanations. Diana was busied with the baby, and contrived to keep herself away from him or from communication with him. He saw that she was engrossed, preoccupied, suffering, and that she shunned him; and he fell back and waited. In New York, he established Diana in a hotel and left her, to go himself alone to the Island and have an interview with his aunt.

Diana alone in a Broadway hotel, felt a little like a person shipwrecked in mid-ocean. What was all this bustling, restless, driving multitude around her like, but the waves of the sea, to which Scripture likens them? and the roar of their tumult almost bewildered her senses. Proverbially there is no situation more lonely to the feeling than the midst of a strange crowd; and Diana, sitting at her window and looking down into the busy street, felt alone and cast adrift as she never had felt in her life before. Her life seemed done, finished, as far as regarded hope or joy; nothing left but weary and dragging existence; and the eager hurrying hither and thither of the city crowd struck on her view as aimless and fruitless, and so very drear to look at? What was it all for? – seeing life was such a thing as she had found it. The wrench of coming away from Pleasant Valley had left her with a reaction of dull, stunned, and strained nerves; she was glad she had come away, glad she was no longer there; and that was the only thing she was glad of in the wide, wide world.

Some degree of rest came with the quiet of those hours alone in the hotel. Basil was gone until the evening, and Diana had time to recover a little from the fatigue of the journey, and in the perfect solitude also from the overstrain of the nerves. She began to remember Basil's part in all this, and to be sensible how true and faithful and kind he was; how very unselfish, how patient with her and with pain. Diana could have wept her heart out over it, if that would have done any good; and indeed supposing that she could have shed tears at all, which she could not just then. She only felt sore and sorry for her husband; and then she took some pains with her toilet, and refreshed herself so as to look pleasant to his eyes when he came home.

He came home only to a late supper. He looked somewhat weary, but his eye brightened when he saw Diana, and he came up and kissed her.

"Diana – God is good," he said to her.

"Yes," she answered, looking up drearily, "I believe it."

"But you do not feel it yet. Well, remember, it is true, and you will feel it some day. It is all right with Aunt Sutphen."

"She will let me come?"

"She is glad to have you come. The old lady is very much alone. And she does me the honour to say that she expects my wife will know how to behave herself."

"What does she mean by that?" said Diana, a little startled.

"I don't know! Aunt Sutphen has her own notions respecting behaviour. I did not inquire, Diana; knowing that, whatever her meaning might be, it was the same thing so far as you are concerned."

"Basil – you are very good!" Diana said after a pause and with a trembling lip.

"I can take compliments from Aunt Sutphen," he said with a bit of his old dry humorous manner, "but from you I don't know what to do with them. Come to supper, Di; we must take the first boat for Clifton to-morrow morning, if we can, to let me get back on my way to Pleasant Valley."

The first boat was very early. The city, however, had long begun its accustomed roar, so that the change was noticeable and pleasant as soon as the breadth of a few furlongs was put between the boat and the wharf. Stillness fell, only excepting the noise made by the dash of the paddle-wheels and the breathing and groaning of the engine; and that seemed quietness to Diana, in contrast with the restless hum and roar of the living multitude. The bay and its shores sparkled in the early sunlight; the sultry, heated atmosphere of the city was most refreshingly replaced by the cool air from the salt sea. Diana breathed it in, filling her lungs with it.

"How good this is!" she said. "Basil, I should think it was dreadful to live in such a place as that."

"Makes less difference than you would think, when you once get accustomed to it."

"O, do you think so! It seems to me there is nothing pleasant there to see or to hear."

"Ay, you are a true wood-thrush," said her husband. "But there is plenty to do in a city, Diana; and that is the main thing."

"So there is in the country."

"I sometimes think I might do more, – reach more people, I mean, – if I were somewhere else. But yes, Di, I grant you, apart from that one consideration, there is no comparison. Green hills are a great deal better company than hot brick walls."

"And how wonderful, how beautiful, this water is!"

"The water is a new feature to you. Well, you will have plenty of it. Aunt Sutphen lives just on the edge of the shore. I am very sorry I cannot stay to see you domesticated. Do you mind it much, beginning here alone?"

"O no."

Diana did not mind that or anything else, in her content at having reached a safe harbour, a place where she would be both secure and free. Lesser things were of no account; and alas! the presence of her husband just now with her was no pleasure. Diana felt at this time, that if she were to live and keep her reason she must have breathing space. Above all things, she desired to be quite alone; to have leisure to think and pray, and review her ground and set up her defences. Basil could not help her; he was better out of sight. So, when he had put her into the little carriage that was in waiting at the landing, and with a last gesture of greeting turned back to the boat, while Diana's eyes filled with tears, she was, nevertheless, nothing but glad at heart. She gathered her baby closer in her arms, and sat back in the carriage and waited.

It was only a short drive, and along the edge of the bay the whole distance. The smell of the salt water was strange and delicious. The morning was still cool. Now that she had left the boat behind her, or rather the boat had left her, the stillness began to be like that of Pleasant Valley; for the light wheels rolled softly over a smooth road. Then they stopped before a low, plain-looking cottage.

It was low and plain, yet it was light and pleasant. Windows opening like doors upon the piazza, and the piazza running all round the house, and the pillars of the piazza wreathed thick with honeysuckles, some of them, and some with climbing roses. The breath of the salt air was smothered in perfumes. Through one of the open window-doors Diana went into a matted room, where everything gave her the instant impression of neatness and coolness and quiet, and a certain sweet summer freshness, which suited her exactly. There was no attempt at richness of furnishing. Yet the old lady who stood there waiting to receive her was a stately lady enough, in a spotless morning dress of white, dainty and ruffled, and a little close embroidered cap above her clustering grey curls. The two looked at each other.

"So you're his wife!" said the elder lady. "I declare, you're handsomer than he is. Come in here, my dear; if you are as good as he is, you are welcome." She opened an inner door and led the way into a bedchamber adjoining, opening like the other room by window-doors upon the piazza, matted and cool and furnished in white. All this Diana took in with the first step into the room. But she answered Mrs. Sutphen's peculiar welcome.

"Did you ever know anybody so good as he is, ma'am?"

"Breakfast will be on table as soon as you are ready," Mrs. Sutphen went on without heeding her words. "It is half-past seven, and I always have it at seven. I waited for you, and now I want my cup of tea. How soon will you be ready?"

"Immediately."

"What will you do with the baby?"

"I will lay her down. She is asleep."

"You'll have to have somebody to look after her. Well, come then, my dear."

Diana followed the old lady, who was half imperative and half impatient. She never forgot that hour in all her life, everything was so new and strange. The windows open towards the water, the fresh salt air coming in, the India matting under her feet, made her feel as if she had got into a new world. The dishes were also in part strange to her, and her only companion fully strange. The good cup of tea she received was almost the only familiar thing, for the very bread was like no bread she had ever seen before. Diana sipped her tea gratefully; all this novelty was the most welcome thing in the world to her overstrained nerves. She sipped her tea as in a dream; the old lady studied her with eyes wide awake and practical.

"Where did Basil pick you up, my dear?"

Diana started a little, looked up, and flushed.

"Where did you come from?"

"From the place where Mr. Masters has been settled these three or four years."

"In the mountains! What sort of people have you got there? More of your sort?"

"They are all of my sort," said Diana somewhat wonderingly.

"Do you know what your sort is, my dear?"

"I do not understand" —

"I thought you did not. I'll change my question. What sort of work is

Basil doing there?"

"You know his profession?" – Diana said, not knowing much better either how to take this question.

"Yes, yes. I know his profession; I ought to, for I wanted him to be a lawyer. But don't you know, my dear, there are all sorts of clergymen? There are some make sermons as other men make bricks; and some more like the way children blow soap-bubbles; all they care for is, how big they are, and how high they will fly, and how long they will last. And I have heard people preach," the old lady went on, "who seemed most like as if they were laying out a Chinese puzzle, and you had to look sharp to see where the pieces fitted. And some, again, preach sermons as if they were a magistrate reading the Riot Act, only they don't want the people to disperse by any means. What is Basil's way?"

"He has more ways than all these," said Diana, who could not help smiling.

"These among 'em?"

"I think not."

"Go on, then, and tell me. What's he like in the pulpit?"

Diana considered how she should humour the old lady's wish.

"Sometimes he is like a shepherd leading his flock to pasture," she began. "Sometimes he is like a lifeboat going out to pick up drowning people. Sometimes it is rather a surgeon in a hospital, going round to find out what is the matter with people and make them well. Sometimes he is just the messenger of the Lord Jesus Christ, and all his business is to deliver his message and get people to hear it."

Mrs. Sutphen looked at Diana over the table, and evidently pricked up her ears; but Diana spoke quite simply, rather slowly; she was thinking how Basil had often seemed to her in his ministry, in and out of the pulpit.

"My dear," said the old lady, "if your husband is like that, do you know you are married to quite a remarkable man?"

"I thought as much a great while ago."

"And what sort of a pastor's wife do you make? You are a very handsome woman to be a minister's wife."

"Am I? Why should not a handsome woman be the wife of a minister?"

"Why, she should, if she can make up her mind to it. Well, my dear, if you will have no more breakfast, perhaps you will like to go and rest. Do you enjoy bathing?"